Tradukuro da James Chandler.

   
An ESSAY by Joseph Skibell
OUR LOVE AFFAIR WITH BOOKS

When your friends are too busy, a book will always go out with you for a cup of coffee. It will walk with you, down the street or to the corner, snuggling against your arm. And it will sit with you, wherever you go, the entire time you're there--which can't be said for a newspaper or even a magazine. How easily one tires of their company. 

But, of course, that's the way it is with a newspaper. You exchange a few polite, a few cursory words, and suddenly it wants to tell you everything! Blowing out facts about the weather, sports, wars in distant places. Flaunting its shallow and contradictory opinions. 

Resorting to jokes, even recipes, to keep your attention, if all else fails. "Look, what you have to say is interesting," you want to tell this newspaper. "But right now I'm just not interested." And you turn away, you let your eyes unfocus, you stare at nothing, as you would to discourage a too-friendly stranger on an airplane. 

Sometimes it gets serious with a book, and spending time with it in public places during the odd quarter hour is no longer quite so satisfying. You want, instead, to give it your full attention. Let's be honest. You want, instead, to crawl into bed and spend all day with it there. You admit as much to the book. The book, of course, is willing. But your friends, who hadn't time for a cup of coffee, now look at you askance. They demand to know why you're avoiding them. Your spouse, your lover, would be horrified, infuriated, to catch the two of you alone together. And so you meet the book for clandestine lunches, for short but sweet afternoons beneath a tree in the park. You spend every free moment together. But it is not enough.

 Brother Reader, Sister Reader, do not think that I am speaking hypothetically, or from a clinical distance, as a doctor would counsel the terminally ill. No, like you, I have known such love affairs. Like you, I have sat across the dinner table at pleasant restaurants with attractive and engaging companions, thinking only of the moment I could excuse myself from them and return to the company of my book. Like you, I have feigned fatigue or claimed overwork on a bright Sunday morning, not to be drawn away from its pages. Like you, I have stayed up until 3:00 a.m.--just one more chapter, one more chapter--despite a heavy schedule the following day.



 There is, of course, love at first sentence. Many books have tantalized me in this way. Among them, Fritjof Capra's engaging memoir, "Uncommon Wisdom," in which the physicist and author of "The Tao of Physics" recounts his intellectual journey through the New Age, towards a paradigm shift: "In April 1970 I received my last paycheck for research in theoretical particle physics." What a beautiful sentence! One way of life ends, but there is a promise of great adventure. 

Or consider the opening line of Gunter Grass's classic World War II novel, "The Tin Drum": "Granted: I am a patient in a mental institution." Cards on the table, things are not perfect, but still there is a story to tell. Or the beginning of the heartbreaking "Hope Against Hope," Nadezhda Mandelstam's account of her husband's descent into the Stalinist labyrinth: "After slapping Alexei Tolstoi in the face, M. immediately returned to Moscow." The Soviet poet Osip Mandelstam has crossed a border--dramatically--and there is no return. 

 



Other books take you in and eventually introduce you to their sisters and cousins, until, like a character in a Woody Allen movie, you do not know who you love the most. In this way, Goethe's "Faust" leads you to Dante's "Divine Comedy," as both poems chronicle journeys through the underworld. Like a lover faithful to too many, the character of Virgil in "The Inferno" and "The Purgatorio" sends you spinning in several directions at once: backward in time to Virgil's own "Aeneid," forward in time to the great German-Jewish novelist Hermann Bloch's "Death of Virgil" (reportedly a word-for-note reconstruction of one of Beethoven's final magisterial quartets). 



Dante again points you to poet James Merrill's magnificent epic, "The Changing Light at Sandover," in which Merrill and his lover David Jackson traverse the netherworld and the celestial spheres with the aid of a Ouija board, guided in part by the departed spirit of W. H. Auden. And so you rush off to read Auden's poems. Me, I came to love his "About the House," a late collection filled with sweet affection.



 Still, at other times, this dizzying whirl is too much. You feel like settling down, going steady. As a young boy, I read all of Steinbeck; as an adolescent, all of Kerouac. A few years ago, I couldn't stop reading the works of psychologist James Hillman. Every few years, I still take his "Puer Papers" or his "A Blue Fire" out to dinner, just for old times' sake. Now I'm reading many books by a number of talented rabbis; among them, Lawrence Kushner ("God Was in This Place and I, I Did Not Know"), Zelig Plisken ("Love Your Neighbor"), Gershon Winkler ("The Place Where You Are Standing Is Holy"). Each book is a doorway into the wisdom, grace, and beauty of the Jewish path of heart. 

 

Eventually, though, you get to the end of a book, and even if you read it more than once, somehow it's just not the same. You can't deny it: something has gone out of the relationship. You thought you'd never feel this way and yet you do. You're bored. And one day, bored, you find yourself strolling through a bookstore. You tell yourself you're there only to browse. And yet, you can't help noticing that all the other books look more attractive than the one you've been spending your time with. You rubberneck your way through the fiction stacks, mentally unwrapping the book jackets. Despite your resolution not to, you guiltily buy something new. You take it to a coffee shop. You promise yourself to keep it platonic. But before long, you're running your fingers up and down its spine and soon the two of you are together, alone, in your bed and huddled between the sheets.


.

 

 NIA AMOR-AFERO KUN LIBRI


Kande onua amiki esas okupata, libro sempre ekiros kun onu por taso de kafeo.  Ol sempre promenos kun onu, alonge la strado od al angulo, kushante an onua  brakio. Ed ol sidos kun onu, irg-ube on iras, dum la tota tempo -- to quo ne esas dicebla pri jurnalo o mem revuo. Quante facile on fatigesas da lia kompaneso.(Duros)

Ma nature, tale esas kun jurnalo. On kambias kelka polita, surfacala vorti, e subite ol volas dicar omno ad onu! Eksuflas fakti pri la vetero, sporti, militi en distanta loki. Ostentas sua surfacala e kontredicant opinioni.


Rekursas a joki, mem recepti, por atencigar onu, se omno altra falias."Nu, to quon vu dicas esas interesiva", on volas respondar a ca jurnalo. "Ma nun me ne interesesas." Ed on forturnas, e permisas sua okuli desfokigar, on fixe regardas nulo, quale on deskurajigus tro-amikala nekonocato en aviono.(Duro sequos)

Kelkafoye seriozeskas kun libro, e pasar tempo kun ol en publika loki dum ula quarima horo ne plus kontentigas. On deziras, vicee, par-atencar ol. Ni esez honesta: On volas, vicee, kushar su e pasar la tota dio ibe kun ol. On konfesas lo a la libro. La libro nature voluntas. Ma onua amiki, qui ne havis tempo por taso de kafeo, nun regardachas onu. Li postulas saveskar pro quo on evitas li. Onua spozo, onua amoranto, hororus, iracus, se lu trovus onu sole kun la libro. E do on renkontras la libro por sekreta dejuni, por kurta ma dolca posdimezi sub arboro en la parko. On pasas omna libera instanto kun ol. Ma lo ne suficas.

(Duro sequos)

Kara Lektantulo, Lektantino, ne pensez ke me parolas hipotezale, o de klinikala
disto, quale mediko konsilus mortonta malado. No, quale vu, me experiencis tala amor-aferi. Quale vu, me sidis trans la dine-tablo che plezanta restorerii kun
atraktiva ed interesanta kompani, pensante nur al instanto kande me povos exkuzar me e retroirar al kompaneso di mea libro. Quale vu, me fingis fatigeso
o tro multa laboro dum brilanta sundi-mateno, por ne fortiresar de lua pagini.QUale vu, me ajornis kushar me til 3 adm -- nur un plusa chapitro, un plusa
chapitro -- malgre pezoza laboro sequanta-die.

(Duro sequos)

Existas, nature, amoro ye unesma frazo. Multa libri tormentetis me tale. Inter oli, l'interesanta memorialo "Neordinara Sajeso" da Fritjof Capra, en quo la
fizikisto ed autoro di "La Tao di Fiziko" naracas sua intelektala voyajo tra la Nov Epoko, vers paradigmo-chanjo: "En aprilo 1970 me recevis mea lasta pagocheko pro resercho* en teoriala partikul-fiziko." Quala bela frazo! Un vivomaniero
finas, ma esas promiso di grand aventuro.

(Duro sequos)

O konsiderez la apertanta lineo dil klasika romano pri la duesma mondo-milito 'La Stana Tamburo' da Gu"nter Grass: "Agnoskita: me esas kuracato en mentala hospitalo." Lud-karti sur la tablo, omno ne esas perfekta, tamen esas ulo rakontinda.

O la komenco dil tristega 'Espero kontre Espero', la naraco da Nadezhda Mandelstam pri la decenso da elua spozulo aden la labirinto Stalinista: "Pos vizajo-frapar Alexei Tolstoi, M. quik retroiris a Moskva." La Sovieta poeto Osip Mandelstam transiris frontiero -- dramatatre -- ed esas nula retroveno.

(Duro sequos)

Altra libri enprenas onu e fine introduktas onu a sua fratini e kuzi, til, quale karaktero en filmo da Woody Allen, on ne savas quan on amas maxim multe. Tale,
'Faust' da Goethe duktas on a 'Deala Komedio' da Dante, nam amba poemi rakontas voyaji tra la submondo. Quale amoranto fidel a tro multi, la karaktero di Virgil en 'La Inferno' e 'La Purgatorio' rotacigas onu diversa-direcione samtempe: retrotempe al 'Aeneid' da Virgil ipsa, adavane al 'Morto di Virgil' dal granda germana-juda romanifisto Hermann Bloch (raportite vorto-po-nota
rikonstrukturo di fina imperema quarteto da Beethoven).

(Duro sequos)

Dante anke direktas on al splendida epikajo 'La Chanjanta Lumo che Sandover' da Merrill, en quo Merrill e lua amoranto David Jackson tra-iras la submondo e la cielala sferi helpe Ouija-planketo, guidata parte dal departinta spirito di W.H. Auden. E do on quik lekteskas la poemi da Auden. Me ipsa ameskis lua 'Che la Domo', tarda kolekturo plena de dolc afeciono.

(Duro sequos)

Tamen, altratempe ca vertijiva vortico esas tro multa. On deziras fideleskar a libro. Kom yunulo, me lektis omno da Steinbeck; kom adolecanto, omno da
Kerouac. Kelka yari ante nun, me mustis lektar la verki da psikologo James Hillman. Omna kelka yari, me ankore dineas kun lua 'Puer-Paperi' o 'Blua Fairo', nur pro nostalgio. Nun me lektas multa libri da talentoza rabini; inter li, Lawrence Kushner ("Deo Esis Hike e Me, Me Ne Savis"), Zelig Plisken ("Amez Vua Vicino"), Gershon Winkler ("La Loko Ube Vu Stacas Esas Santa"). Singla
libro esas pordo aden la sajeso, gracio e beleso dil juda voyo di kordio.


(Duro sequos)

Fine, tamen, on atingas la fino di libro, e mem se on rilektas ol, lo ne esas sama. On ne povas negar lo: ulo mankas en la relato. On ne expektis sentar tale, ma on ya sentas tale. On esas tedata. Ed undie, tedata, on trovas su promenante tra librerio. Ed on dicas a su ke on nur regardas. Tamen, on remarkas ke omna altra libri aspektas plu bona kam onua nuna libro. On oglachas la fiktivaji, mentale senvestigante li. Malgre onua kontre-rezolvo, on kulpoze kompras libro nova. On prenas ol a kafeerio. On promisas a su ne amoreskar kun ol.

Ma ante longe, on karezas olua spino, e balde on esas sola kun ol, en onua lito kushante inter la tuki.


FINO